


Practising

by liriodendron



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Male Slash, Post Reichenbach, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:18:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liriodendron/pseuds/liriodendron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock Holmes’ return to 221B Baker Street had gone, initially, exactly as he had expected. Upon discovering him sprawled nonchalantly in the sitting room when returning from a shift at the surgery, John had punched him in the jaw. Twice. That had, of course, been a near inevitability and any other reaction would have been cause for worry."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practising

            Sherlock Holmes’ return to 221B Baker Street had gone, initially, exactly as he had expected. Upon discovering him sprawled nonchalantly in the sitting room when returning from a shift at the surgery, John had punched him in the jaw. Twice. That had, of course, been a near inevitability and any other reaction would have been cause for worry.

            Once the first rush of emotion had been excised and John had managed to hold back most of his tears, at least in front of Sherlock, there was the explanation, the apology, the ensuing guilt on John’s part for ever doubting Sherlock, the assessment of Sherlock’s physical condition (not well, too skinny, new scars), and the stern mother-henning, which involved hot food, tea, and ordering Sherlock to the bath, then bed.

            Sherlock submitted to all this almost meekly, pleased that John seemed to reacting as he had anticipated and confident that after a week or so of dutiful penance on his part they would be back to their usual pattern with few long term effects. Six months was a long time, true, but not so very long. John had clearly not moved on from their life together, and that had been the area of main concern for Sherlock. There was still a space for Sherlock in John’s existence, and it should be simple enough to resume it, provided he seemed appropriately apologetic.

            And he was very tired. It had been a long time since someone had made his tea, since he had slept in safety. It was a relief to let John fuss exasperatedly over him and tell him what to do. He slept 18 hours that first night, longer than he could ever remember sleeping in his life. When he woke he devoured the breakfast John had laid out for him without a word, except for remembering to thank John for once, took another shower, and collapsed back into his bed for another 14 hours.

            It was the next day that was the problem. The first snag was that it was going to take some time, possibly weeks for Mycroft and Lestrade to officially clear his name. He was still a very wanted man. That meant no leaving the house, no posting on his website, and above all absolutely no cases. Not even private ones. That was going to make getting back to normal impossible, at least for the immediate future.

            The second snag was John. Once Sherlock seemed to have been restored to something resembling normal health, John began act in a way that made Sherlock doubt his assessment of the situation. He grew cold. Very cold. He didn’t ignore Sherlock, but he didn’t give him an inch either. He told him the news from while he was gone, made their tea, expressed a wish that they could start working cases soon – all the appropriate gestures.

            But he didn’t joke with him, he didn’t make any sarcastic comments, he didn’t ask any questions. He didn’t even rage at Sherlock, or storm out and go to the pub to get away from him – that would have been within the limits of what Sherlock still considered a good reaction. But this, this was a smooth, frigid anger, an anger that didn’t have any edges, didn’t leave any way in. It baffled Sherlock. He made a few attempts at gaining a foothold, once trying to provoke John into a fight, and then resorting quiet acts of apology – straightening up the flat, ordering John’s favourite takeaway for supper. Neither got him anywhere.

            After a few days of this, Sherlock was at a loss. It was bad enough he had no way to work and couldn’t leave the flat, now even John was denying him any form of mental stimulation. He was going to go mad. He had tried to be on his best behavior, but really this was not to be borne. And of course there were no drugs to be had anywhere in the flat, not even nicotine patches. John ignored his requests for these when he did the shopping.

            The only thing Sherlock had not tried was confronting the problem directly, and at last he grew desperate enough to resort to that. Sulking, he flounced into the kitchen where John was reading and picking at some leftovers, and collapsed into the chair across from him. John did not look up from his magazine.

            “All right,” Sherlock said peevishly, grabbing it from his hand and tossing it away. “What is it?”

            John sighed and Sherlock could see him weighing whether to engage in the conversation or continue his campaign of psychological torture. Finally he said, “I can’t believe you need to ask me that.”

            “I know, John. I’m sorry, truly. I’ve said it and I’ll say it a thousand more times if you want.” Sherlock was doing his best to sound genuinely contrite, and in his heart he was. But this was getting to be a bit much, really – couldn’t they just move on? Still, John apparently needed more from him in the apology department and he didn’t really have much leverage to refuse.

            John looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since the night he’d returned, searching his face with a hint of a sad smile. “Six months, Sherlock. Do you have any idea what that was like for me? How much I missed you? How much it hurt? And I am so happy to have you back, I can’t even tell you. But it doesn’t erase those six months. In fact, it makes them worse now that I know they were for nothing. I was grieving a man who wasn’t dead. And you didn’t say a word. Not a letter, not a text.”

             “I was trying to protect you.”

             “Sherlock, I believe that, I really do. I know you were trying to protect me, to protect Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I know you did it for us. But…the thing is… you also did it for you. You had a score to settle, a nemesis who eluded you, even in death, and you couldn’t stop until you finished it. It wasn’t concern for me that kept you at it so long, without a note or a call, was it? Be honest.” John’s voice was stern, demanding.

            Sherlock hesitated.

            “Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear, you’re rubbish at it. And don’t give me some repentant bullshit. I’ve seen you cry on cue too many times for your emotionally manipulative act to work. The truth. It wasn’t just for me, was it?”

            “No, John. It wasn’t.”

            “That’s the trouble. You were off fighting and searching and being _alive_ , while I was here trying to pick up the bits of a life that wasn’t going to ever fit back together. And I resent it, Sherlock. I resent the time I spent mourning, and I resent being left to do it while you went and had your fun. It _was_ fun for you, wasn’t it? Tell me!”

            Sherlock took a deep breath. This was not a strategy he had prepared for, but he knew giving John anything other than what he was asking for now would backfire. “Yes, it was fun. The hunt. Putting the pieces together. The scent of blood in my nose. Destroying everything Moriarty built, every last connection, every asset, one by one. Dismantling it with my own hands. It was the most satisfying thing I’ve ever done. But I want you to believe me that the only thing that could have made it better is if you had been there with me.”

            John digested his statement impassively. “Did you think of me? Back here alone. Even once, did you think what it was doing to me?”

            Sherlock lifted his head and looked John directly in his eyes, stormy blue and hard like flint right now. “I thought of you everyday, John. I swear.”

            John let out a long breath. “I could have helped you, Sherlock.”

            “I know.”

            John let it go there. “How many people did you kill?”

            “Nineteen.”

            “How many deserved it?”

            “All of them.”

            John’s eyes narrowed.

            “Fourteen,” Sherlock amended. “The others were henchmen, too stupid to realise when they were on the wrong side. I did…try…not to be excessive.”

            John accepted this. “And how many times did you nearly die?”

            “Five.”

            “And if you had, out there on some lonely street thousands of miles away, would I ever have known?”

            A pause. “No.”

            The coldness returned, and Sherlock thought desperately for what to say to make it retreat again.

            “I…thought it easiest, for you. I didn’t want you to have to go through that twice. It was for your own good.”

            This was the wrong thing to say, but at least the anger was burning hot again. John’s eyes blazed at him and he leaned in closer. “If we have any chance of going back to the way things were, if I am going to be able to stand the sight of you, I need to know that you are never again going to keep things from me for what you think is my own good. Because this, this was _not good_ , Sherlock.” His voice was tight and quiet and furious. “You don’t get to decide what’s good for me, do you understand? Not _ever_ again. If you can’t handle that, then I don’t know if I can do this.”

            “You’d…leave?”

            John ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to find out the answer to that. Do you?”

            Sherlock was silent. At last he said. “All right, John. I promise. Never again.”

            John relaxed visibly, but Sherlock could see he was still angry.  “So. Is there anything else I should know? Anything you’ve been keeping from me for my 'own good'? Now would be the time.”

            Sherlock tensed and chewed on his lip absently, thinking a mile a minute.

            “Sherlock…” John said, growing suspicious.

            At last Sherlock closed his eyes and darted forward quickly, brushing his lips against John’s then retreating back into himself just as fast.

            John jumped in shock but did not get up. “What was that?” he demanded.

            “Something I’ve been keeping from you. For your own good.” Sherlock wouldn’t meet his gaze.

            John slowly leaned back, absorbing what had happened, while Sherlock fidgeted nervously, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. At last John said quietly, “Why did you think that?”

            “Because you’re straight. Knowing would only make things uncomfortable for you. Make our friendship…awkward.”

            John snorted. “God, you’re a moron, Sherlock Holmes.”

            Sherlock finally looked at him. John was smiling, his expression indecipherable. He reached out and tilted Sherlock’s chin up, then leaned in and kissed him, softly, deliberately. “Complete and total idiot.”

            Sherlock’s eyes widened and John relished the genuine look of surprise on his face, seeing as how rare such an expression was for the detective. He did not, however, get to appreciate it for very long before Sherlock had all but tackled him, nearly knocking him backwards out of his chair. Before he knew it, Sherlock was filling his senses, tongue in his mouth, hands on his neck, scent of aftershave in his nostrils.

            John responded without a conscious thought in his head, weaving his fingers into Sherlock’s curls and pulling him closer and closer until finally they both did fall out of their chairs and ended up in a heap on the kitchen floor, still kissing madly, legs tangled. John could feel the need pouring off of Sherlock, making him fierce and hungry and strong. He pressed his hips into John’s and began simultaneously tugging at John’s jumper and fumbling for his belt, all the while attempting to suck every last molecule of air out of John’s lungs.

            With difficulty, John forced himself to think, to tear his mouth away from Sherlock’s and form the word, “No.” 

            Sherlock froze, still on him, face inches from John’s own.

            John gasped for air. “Not now. Not like this.” It took everything he had in him to say it, to stop, and he knew if he didn’t right then he’d never be able to. He’d wanted Sherlock from the day they met, and it had taken him almost two years to fully come to terms with it. He’d never been attracted to another man in his life, not even vaguely, but Sherlock wasn’t any other man.

            It would be so easy, now, in the rush of anger and joy and relief at Sherlock’s return to fall into bed together. They both wanted it, he could feel it hanging in the air between them, hot and moist and tempting. But it would be a mistake. He wasn’t over what Sherlock had done, those six months of loneliness. Sex wasn’t going to fix that, and it couldn’t _be_ just sex either, not with them, with the life they had together. It had to be all in or nothing at all, and he was in no condition to make a rational decision on that right now. And neither was Sherlock.

            Sherlock was staring at him now, appalled and clearly wounded. John could see him withdrawing, throwing up walls. He jumped up in one smooth movement and straightened his shirt, composing himself. “I see,” he said coldly. “I am sorry, John, I seem to have misunderstood. If you’ll excuse me.”

            He crossed the kitchen in a few long strides and John heard the door to his bedroom slam.

            “Bugger,” John muttered, scrambling to his feet, and winced as he heard the sound of a bow being drawn roughly over violin strings, eliciting protests from the delicate instrument. He couldn’t leave it like this. He went to Sherlock’s door and knocked. No response other than increasingly tortured screeching from the violin.

            “Sherlock? I’m coming in, okay?”

            John cracked the door. Sherlock was sitting on his bed, facing away from the entrance, legs crossed beneath him and violin loosely in his hands. John slowly walked around the bed to face him, and knelt down in front of his friend, putting his hands on Sherlock’s knees.

            “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he said, sincerely. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

            “Nothing to be sorry for, John,” Sherlock said briskly, staring at a spot somewhere to the right of John’s ear. “You feel how you feel, it’s perfectly understandable. I would prefer we just forget the whole thing.”

            “You really are thick!” John exclaimed. “Will you just listen to me for a minute instead of acting like you know everything?”

            This got an annoyed scowl out of Sherlock, but at least he finally focused on John, and put the violin down.

            “I wasn’t saying no because I didn’t want to, you bloody fool. I would have thought you could at least have deduced that from the responses my body was giving, seeing as how it was pressed right up against yours.”

            Sherlock arched an eyebrow, conceding the point. “Well, then?”

            “It’s just…it’s too much, too soon. You just got back from the dead, you don’t have your job back, I still want to hit you and kiss you at the same time… And if we do this, I want it to be right. I don’t want either of us to wake up tomorrow morning with regrets.”

            “So you think you’d regret it, then,” Sherlock said flatly.

            John made a noise of frustration. “No! I don’t know. I think we’d both regret it if it was the wrong time and the wrong reasons. This is so fresh, we need, I need to give it a little time, to figure it out. There’s too many other things right now to cloud our judgement. Can we get used to just being around each other again, first?”

            Sherlock pressed his lips together and nodded reluctantly, still clearly put out but no longer acting in that stiff, cruel, protective manner he had when he was humiliated.

            “Thank you,” John said. “See you in the morning?”

            Sherlock picked up his violin again and began to bow, more gently this time, producing something approaching a melody.

            John went upstairs. “Well, you could have handled that better,” he told himself as he changed. But at least he seemed to have averted the worst of the damage. He always forgot how sensitive Sherlock could be. He was so arrogant so much of the time, when you hit a nerve it was unexpected and shocking how easy he was to hurt. And when he was hurt, he could give it right back tenfold.

            John climbed into bed, pondering the problem. The question with Sherlock had moved from one of if to one of how and when. John was, and had been for some time, comfortable with the confirmed bachelor flatmate status they enjoyed, the solving cases, the pseudo-domestic arrangement. And, at least given his reaction to the unexpected snogging, it seemed sex certainly wasn’t going to be a problem.

            But they couldn’t just be flatmates who solved crimes and fucked, either, there was far too much emotional baggage there already. And it was the in-between stuff that worried him. The… well, the word “boyfriend” absolutely refused to coalescence in his head around the image of Sherlock Holmes.  The romantic partner stuff. The casual affection, the subtle negotiations regarding time and space and weekend plans you had with a lover but not with a flatmate. The talk of a future.

            Was Sherlock even capable of any of that? And assuming he was, would it be enough for John? He thought so, but there was a nagging doubt in his head that part of him would always be longing for a girl to hold and giggle with and curl up on the sofa on Sunday mornings with, even as he lusted after his flatmate, even as he knew in his heart he loved him more than he could ever love any woman. Sex was straightforward enough, and so was friendship, but did he know how to be in a relationship with another man? And did Sherlock know how to be in one at all?

            John tossed and turned. He knew the one thing he mustn’t do was promise Sherlock, in word or action, something he wasn’t prepared to follow through on. So where did that leave them? Suddenly John smiled to himself. The only thing to do was to practise. Leave off the sex for now, and try the messy, in-between relationship stuff for a bit and see what happened. It would be awkward, but at least they’d get it over with straight away and then John would know if they could make it work. And, he had to admit, the thought of running his own experiment on Sherlock for once had a certain appeal.

            Satisfied, he fell at once asleep, still hearing the faint chords of the violin drifting up from Sherlock’s bedroom.

            The next morning, Sherlock was up before John, if he had ever gone to bed. He was at the table, going through his microscope slides, as Mrs. Hudson had put them all in a big box without thought to his organization system and now they were all out of order. He didn’t glance up when John entered the kitchen, yawning.

            “Morning,” John said, and put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, bending down to kiss him on the cheek, as if he had done it a hundred, a thousand mornings before. He felt Sherlock tense in surprise, but he did not look up from his slide.

            John drifted over to counter and put the kettle on. Now he could feel Sherlock’s eyes boring into the back of his skull, trying to work out what was going on. He smiled to himself. “Tea? Breakfast? I was thinking a fry-up might be nice. I know we have some beans around here…”

            “John…”

            “Yes?” John turned around, his face the picture of innocence. “Want something else then?”

            Sherlock almost said something, then appeared to be at a total loss for adequate words. “No,” he said lamely. “That’s…fine.” He went back to his microscope and John hoped he missed the expression of smug satisfaction John couldn’t quite keep off his face.

            John was pleased at how well this approach worked. Over the next few days he simply acted as if they were, and had been for sometime, in a mutually acknowledged relationship, albeit a very chaste one. As if it was the most natural thing in the world that he would touch Sherlock lightly as he went past, run his fingers through his hair, kiss him briefly on the lips when he went off to work a shift. As if they had always thrown their laundry in together, held hands while watching telly, or argued over the remote (previously, John had always let Sherlock have it if he wanted, but that was stopping right now).

            And in truth, aside from the kisses and touches, the blatant flirtation, and the softening of some boundaries, there really wasn’t much difference between acting like a real couple and the way they had acted before Sherlock went away, John realised. Maybe it wasn’t so very far to go after all. Apparently being in a relationship with another man was pretty much like being in a relationship with anyone else. Except, of course, that it was Sherlock, so anything could happen.

            Sherlock seemed, after an initial period of suspicion at each new thing John tried, willing to go along with it, although he watched John like a hawk whenever he thought he wasn’t looking, as if this all might be a trap or an elaborate joke of some kind. John ignored him placidly and went on as if nothing had changed between them.

            Slowly, tentatively, Sherlock began to respond to the affection, and even offer some of his own, leaning into John’s hand if he placed it against Sherlock’s cheek, or putting a couple of fingers very lightly against John’s leg while they were reading next to each other. He was careful though, clearly gun-shy of crossing a line again and having John reject him. John felt rather as if he was taming a wild animal. Domesticating Sherlock. 

            On Wednesday the call came that Sherlock was no longer a wanted criminal, although there were still some things to sort out before he could take cases of any kind. But he no longer needed to stay inside and pretend he didn’t exist. The speed with which he bolted out the door of the flat upon hearing this was astonishing. John could hardly blame him, after a week cooped up inside with his flatmate messing with his perception of reality. He didn’t ask Sherlock where he was going, but did manage to halt him just long enough to ask if he could be back by seven.

           “Why?”

           “Because I’m taking you out. To celebrate. Okay?”

           “I can pick up a Chinese on my way home…”

           John gave him a significant look and spoke very clearly. “Sherlock. I would really like to take you out. To dinner. Tonight. At a nice restaurant. Alone.”

           Sherlock processed that, nodded, and fled. John grinned at his retreating back. He knew he was being a little heartless, after all Sherlock had been through, but it was also working. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were, at least on some level, capable of having something approaching a functional relationship. Even if no one had bothered to tell Sherlock about it. Perhaps _because_ no one had bothered to tell Sherlock about it. 

           Their date, and even Sherlock seemed to realise that it was in fact very much a date, went well. The restaurant was one neither had visited before and was somewhat romantic, but not stomach-churningly so. John ordered a wine he knew Sherlock would like, and finally, for the first time, asked him about his time away without bitterness or resentment. He let Sherlock tell him about his adventures and narrow escapes, talk about his own cleverness in hunting down Moriarty’s network, and John allowed himself to be riveted by the stories without dwelling on his own sorry state during the intervening time.

           Sherlock, as always, was at his most enchanting when working or talking about his deductions, his feats of intellect and daring, and there had not been much opportunity for either since he’d come back, locked up in the house with everything he’d achieved in the past six month a sore spot for John. Now he was animated, excited, and pleased with himself, and John felt the familiar surge of adrenaline and attraction he had always felt when around Sherlock at the height of his powers. It was, he had to admit, intoxicating.

           On the way home, he grabbed Sherlock’s hand and interlaced their fingers, pulling him down for a full throated kiss right in the middle of the street, not caring who saw. They walked home, Sherlock still recounting his victories, although perhaps speaking a bit too quickly. When they reached the flat, John demurred from another passionate kiss, knowing where it would lead once they were inside, but gave Sherlock a peck on the lips and caressed his shoulder before retreating up to his room.

           It had taken John a mere four days to decide that, yes, a romantic relationship with Sherlock and all that entailed not only would work but was the only thing he ever wanted. But he let things go on this way for an additional three days as payback. It was good for Sherlock, he rationalized, to learn a little patience and spend some time being unsure of his footing. John knew once they crossed the line from playing at coupledom to actual coupledom, Sherlock’s uncertainty would disappear quickly, and he was enjoying having the upper hand, just this once.

          On Sunday afternoon, they sat on the sofa as the light started to fail, John clothed and reading the paper and Sherlock still in his blue silk dressing gown and pyjama bottoms, flipping impatiently through channels, despairing of ever being allowed to do anything interesting again. John reached over and began playing with the curls on the back of Sherlock’s neck, occasionally fondling his earlobe absently. To his surprise, Sherlock made what could only be described as a wail of abject misery, switched off the telly, and sank bonelessly off the sofa and onto the floor.

          John put his paper down and peered at him, concerned. “Sherlock?”

          His eyes were closed and he was pinching the bridge of his nose. “John, I realise I put you through a lot and I can understand your reasons for tormenting me, but I have to say I feel that this getting to be a little bit unfair. I have nowhere to be, no cases to work, no drugs, and now this. I simply can’t take it anymore.”

          Sherlock had not moved from his spot on the floor. John was bemused. “Okay, I will admit I was tormenting you a little bit, and you deserved it, but I had no idea you found my touches so intolerable.”

          “Intolerable!” Sherlock sat bolt upright. “What’s intolerable is that they stop! You’ve been teasing me for a solid week, and I’ve been trying to do as you’ve asked and wait, but really you have been too cruel.”

          John couldn’t stop himself from laughing just a little. “I wasn’t trying to tease you, not really. I was just…practising.”

          “Practising?” Sherlock was incredulous.

          “Yes. This is new to me, you know that. I wanted to see what it would be like, you and me. Before we went so far that we couldn’t take it back if we wanted to.”

          “You were testing me!” Sherlock collapsed back onto the floor, a tad more dramatically than necessary

          “I was testing me, too,” John pointed out. “I didn’t know if I could do this with you. I’m straight, remember?”

          This did earn him a tiny smile, quickly suppressed. “And the results of your experiment, Doctor Watson?”

          John slid onto the floor as well, his back to the sofa and Sherlock’s head by his thigh. “I think we passed. There is one more test to be sure, though,” he added coyly.

          Sherlock lifted his head. “Are you talking about sex, finally?” he demanded. “Because I need stimulation, and if we aren’t going to have sex I will need to procure suitable distraction by other means, and I will expect you to help me.”

          John rolled his eyes. “Are you trying to say that I can either have sex with you right now or go out and get you some cocaine?”

          “Or a murder case. Your choice,” Sherlock said solemnly.

           "You hopeless romantic, you,” John murmured, as he bent down to kiss him. There was nothing chaste about it this time, and Sherlock lit up as if the sun had been turned on inside his soul. He jumped to his feet and dragged John with him.

           “Come on, John, bedroom, _now_!”

           John laughed, and pulled Sherlock back to him, encircling his waist with his arms. “There’s no rush!” he told him, kissing him again, revelling in the feel of Sherlock’s slender body in his grasp.

           “Speak for yourself,” Sherlock growled, but allowed John to slow their progress to the bedroom just a little, so that they didn’t trip on anything. Once there, however, any thoughts of restraint left both their minds and they gave themselves over to the need that had been building between them for so long, rushing headlong into each other in a tangle of arms and legs and teeth and lips, drenched with sweat.

           The first time that night was fast and desperate and a blur, like teenagers fumbling at each other. They barely managed to get each other fully undressed before they came at nearly the same time, unable to hold out once bare flesh at last pressed together. John found himself chuckling delightedly as they broke apart, earning a concerned look from Sherlock until he started kissing every available inch of skin, tickling him with his stubble and making Sherlock giggle as well, and shake off his painful self-consciousness.

           Once they recovered, the second and third times lasted much longer. They were more deliberate, taking time to fully and methodically explore one another with hands, lips, tongues, and cocks, investigating every possible way they could fit together. Sherlock was far from experienced, but at least in this department he was miles ahead of John, and John let him lead. He was surprisingly gentle at the right moments, despite being otherwise forceful and aggressive, years of celibacy making him greedy and determined to take every moment of pleasure there was to be had.

           When John first felt Sherlock move inside him, he was completely undone. He had never experienced anything like it before and almost couldn’t process the sensation. Sherlock was so warm, so very warm, filling John so completely that John thought he might dissolve away happily into dust, then and there. Sherlock’s hands, one of his shoulder, one on his hipbone, burned on his skin and he pressed himself back into his friend, wanting to feel every centimetre. He felt whole in a way he never had before. He didn’t want it to end, though the release when it did, Sherlock’s hand wrapped around him, shuddering to a stop deep within him, was exquisite.

           The feeling of being inside Sherlock, though no less profound, was at least slightly more familiar territory for John and he luxuriated in Sherlock’s bony hips bucking against him, and the sound of his deep voice first begging, then ordering him to move, thrust harder, deeper, faster against him, growing hoarse with desire as they both drew near again and plunged over the edge together, at last collapsing on the bed, John still inside Sherlock, showering his back and sharp shoulder blades with kisses as they slowly came down.

           Carefully John rolled off of Sherlock and on to his back, catching his breath. Sherlock propped himself up on one arm and gazed at John almost shyly. John ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair. Neither spoke for awhile. At last, Sherlock offered, “I’ve never let anyone do that before, you know.”

           “What? Oh. Really?” John tried to sound casual.

           “I prefer being the one in control,” Sherlock replied. “It’s safer.”

           John nodded. “I can understand that. So what’s different now?”

           “I wanted you, John. I wanted you so badly it wasn’t enough to be in control, I wanted to be out of control, I wanted to have you in every way it was possible to have a person, and for you to have me.” Sherlock’s eyes were shining, as if he desperately wanted John to understand something but couldn’t quite say what he meant.

           John looked away a little awkwardly. “Well, um, I hope I didn’t disappoint.”

            “Not in the least.”

            John wasn’t sure, but he thought Sherlock might have just told him he loved him. He pulled Sherlock closer in response, crushing him against his chest and breathing in his scent, deodorant and soap and sweat and sex all mingled together. After a moment, John said lightly, “I’ll be lucky if I can walk tomorrow, you know.”

            “John, I had no intention of letting you walk anywhere tomorrow,” Sherlock replied, in all seriousness.

            “But I have work,” John protested.

            “You’re not going to work tomorrow.”

            John laughed, and smoothed the damp locks off Sherlock’s forehead. “No, I suppose I’m not,” he conceded.

            “In fact, I don’t see why you should go to work ever again,” Sherlock continued,  still completely in earnest.

            “One day at a time, Sherlock,” John said fondly.

            The fourth time was slow and languid, almost lazy, under the sheets and face to face, and only because despite their exhaustion they simply could not keep their hands off one another. At last they were completely spent, and John could feel the needs of sleep, shower, and food fighting for dominance within him. He knew sleep would win if he didn’t make a move to get up right then. Sherlock was done in too – despite his usually meticulous attention to his person he had made no move to clean up and had instead curled himself around John and was nuzzling the back of his neck sleepily.

            John decided the shower could wait until morning and allowed himself to melt into Sherlock’s embrace, pulling the blanket tightly around them both. Unconsciousness was taking him but he murmured, “Sherlock?”

            “Hmm?”

            “Welcome home.”

            “Mmm.”

            And then they were both fast asleep.


End file.
